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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28510713">25 - Worldfall</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaCollides/pseuds/SeaCollides'>SeaCollides</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Bad Things Happen To The Best Of Us [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DreamSMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - War, Alternative Universe - Kingdom, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood and Injury, Gen, Hurt, Worldbuilding, set in-minecraft; not RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:09:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,677</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28510713</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaCollides/pseuds/SeaCollides</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>At least it's not a crossbow bolt through his spine. </p><p>-<br/>Prompt 25: Painful Wound Cleaning.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream &amp; Everyone, Clay | Dream &amp; GeorgeNotFound</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Bad Things Happen To The Best Of Us [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2088450</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>25 - Worldfall</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>BTHB Mods: You can write DreamSMP as long as it's the personas the CCs roleplay, not the actual CCs themselves and no tagging as RPF<br/>Me, immediately: <em>Great, let's get to work!</em></p><p>Kingdom AU just wormed itself into this one. The enemy became the Pillagers for no reason at all. Fuck canon, I do what I want. </p><p>Yes, I will expand on this small AU which is made just for the Bad Things Happen Bingo, haha. No, not all of the bingo prompts will be DreamSMP, in fact, one of them is already planned and it will be Genshin Impact (Kaeya-focused!).</p><p>If you're one of my DR readers clicking on this out of curiosity I am sorry for not updating any of my DR fics (read: Madmen and AOSWTL), but yes will Madmen update soon, I promise.</p><p>It's literally 5AM in the morning and I am running on 10% battery so... unedited, for now. Some sentences might be clunky as hell and there might be spelling errors. I apologize.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The arrow hurt.</p><p>Dream could hear the thundering of Ravager hooves and the muffled roars of washed-out yelling somewhere near the back of his head. The majority of his mind was stuffed to the brim with a strange static fuzz, blurring out his usually keen senses. His heavy ceramic mask felt constricting around his face. The leather bag looped across his shoulder bit down into his worn clothes. Every feeling felt far too amplified, and his wounded gut was creating a living hell for Dream. </p><p>He ran through all possible scenarios that could happen if he didn’t treat his newfound injury in time. None of them ended with him alive. He growled and continued his dreadfully slow pace towards the density of dark oak trees across him, praying he’d find some sort of temporary shelter there.</p><p>Pain bloomed like fireworks across Dream’s entire stomach area when he finally stumbled deep enough into the forest. He persisted and took cover behind a rather thick-trunked tree, breathing labored. </p><p>Pillagers never carried such potent poisoned arrows, nor were they normally a challenge to Dream. But someone—and he did not know who—had been masterminding to take over his kingdom for a long, long time. </p><p>The SMP… The memory was burning around the edges, hot to touch. Or maybe that was just the brilliant stains of crimson starting to bleed onto the flat of his palms.</p><p>Dream remembered the torched houses, the SMP’s plank roads set ablaze, the crystal-clear rivers dirtied and the fish inside dead. He remembered it with perfect clarity, for it was his old home—how could he forget?</p><p>Before his home burned and he was proclaimed dead, Dream had spoken to all of his closest allies. <em>“Run,” </em>was what he had whispered to them as a final parting. He was the king. It was his duty. He had feared a foreign revolt would rise—which it did—and the most prominent figureheads of the SMP—George, Wilbur, Tommy, Technoblade, and many, many more—would be hunted down and killed like sport. </p><p>Dream was, as he hated to be, right. Search orders were being issued by the rising Pillager parties gaining influence over Dream’s people. Dream himself had snuck around a low-profile village, head perpetually hung low, wordlessly listening in on recent news being murmured and passed around by careless passerby. His mask, when in public, never once came off his face.</p><p>Dream remembered the way his lungs gave out when he learnt of the first few casualties. </p><p><em> Sapnap is dead</em>. <em>George has been taken prisoner. </em></p><p>The village’s tavern owner, a stocky man with a graying beard, was not pleased with the amount of tears Dream had spilt all over his bar table. He was, however, good at comforting crying clients, for losing a loved one was no foreign thing to him. </p><p>Three weeks had passed after the burning of his home, and another round of news was broken to Dream. </p><p>
  <em> Technoblade, killed in action. TommyInnit, MIA. </em>
</p><p>Dream had clawed at the ratty green hoodie he’d bought off a random merchant, anger bubbling like a volcano beneath his skin. He had screamed into the musty pillow provided by his local inn, eyes wet with sheer, unbridled rage.</p><p>How, he had seethed, was a man who was so renowned in combat—how was he struck down by another that was not a god themself? Could a god even lay a scratch on the pink-haired man?</p><p>Dream’s question was already answered—and no deity was needed to kill him. </p><p>Tommy, however… Dream did not grieve as hard, for there was still hope. Tommy could be alive, somewhere, tending to his battle wounds with Tubbo. He could be showing off a few scars he got to Wilbur, with the ghost of a pink warrior overseeing them all. </p><p>So, Dream hoped, and hoped, and hoped for a better round of news. His prayers were half-answered. </p><p>The following week, Dream learnt of a massive prison breakout occurring far across the SMP’s border, just a stone’s throw away from enemy territory. Though the news was relatively good, naturally, there was a darker side to it. Dream’s previously bright mood took a turn for the worst when the tavern owner continued with a grim face: “A huge massacre happened right as the breakout succeeded. Arrows flew, and now dozens are dead.”</p><p>Dream was never one to beg, but when he was ushered back into his inn room, he had grovelled on his knees and arms to whatever higher being that existed, praying and praying for George’s life. </p><p><em> Let him be alive, let him be alive</em>. The words could not be any clearer, and Dream repeated them over and over until his tongue was dry and his mouth was sore.</p><p>Two months passed as Dream wasted away in a shoddy village. He and the tavern owner were acquaintances now, sometimes drinking as they shared stories between them. The man was named Timothy. He had a wife and two kids, and they were currently in a richer town looking for job opportunities. Dream told his own story. He used to live in the heart of the SMP (not a lie), and sometimes met up with the now-wanted people to play a few games (also not a lie), but was never directly involved with the battles brewing near the border (in a way, also not a lie—Dream plotted behind a desk; it was Technoblade who fought).</p><p>Perhaps Dream got too lax with his descent into a commoner’s life and left his back entirely unguarded. Three months after the burning of his home, Dream was roughly awoken to the sounds of screaming families. </p><p>Grey-faced men riding monstrous beasts were swarming the streets, setting houses on fire. <em>Pillagers, </em>Dream realized far too late, and he shot to his feet. He grabbed his belongings, stuffed them in a leather bag, and immediately began looking for an escape route. If he had woken earlier, he would’ve run out of the front door, but the Pillagers crowded the streets like ants swarming their prey. If he opened the door to his room, went down, and flung himself out onto the road, he’d be shot dead in an instant—with or without his former title as king. </p><p>Dream decided to take a more elusive escape route. He smashed open a glass window and threw himself out of it. </p><p>The inn was small, only two stories high, and Dream landed safely without hurting his legs. He was standing in a damp alleyway, the floor devoid of bodies. A small hiss sounded to his left. When Dream whipped his head around to look, he saw the lanky figure of a calico cat disappearing into the street, tail lashing behind it. He winced in pity when a loud yowl shrieked through the chilly air, almost muting the barely-audible sound of a dull <em>thunk</em>, symbolizing an arrow embedding itself deep into its target. </p><p>Dream slowly inched his way out of the alleyway and shielded his eyes from the sprawling feline corpse lying dead on the ground. He tugged his hood down over his features and slinked away from the Pillager party’s line of sight, far from their firing range.</p><p>Dream’s breath paused in his throat when his boots lightly hit the arm of a fallen man. He had a graying beard and a stocky build. Dream chose to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach and continued moving forwards, hands tightening around his leather bag. </p><p>Where was a good weapon when you needed one? Right, Dream had none since his arrival in the village. Blacksmiths were rare in run-down areas like these—he’d be lucky to even find an unbent fork. Axes, armor, shields? Forget about it. </p><p>A loud yell of alert snapped Dream out of his thoughts, and in a panic, he darted to his right and bolted like a madman. Perhaps it was that one step to the right that saved his spine because instead of getting his backbone pierced, only an incredibly painful, poisoned arrow was shot into his side. </p><p>Dream stumbled and tripped over his own shoes, pain shooting through his entire body like a thousand electric volts striking him at once. He hit the ground and clenched his teeth together, trying not to scream into his mask. He failed.</p><p>The Pillagers probably thought he was going to bleed out and die because no more arrows were shot into him. The clamor behind Dream faded, and he slowly began losing consciousness. </p><p>He was faintly aware of some voice yelling at him—or was it yelling at the retreating Pillagers? Before he knew it, Dream found his mask being lifted upwards, dropped back down again, and he was then lugged across the freezing street to be forced onto the back of a dappled horse. He felt something both searingly hot and frigidly cold being applied onto his wound. A scream tore out from the back of his throat, and the person helping him gave Dream a bundle of cloth to bite down on. </p><p>The face looking at him was mildly familiar, but through Dream’s blurry haze he was just another blond figure wearing a white-green hat. </p><p>“I can’t really help you now, it’s too risky,” the person hurriedly whispered, and he stuffed a few metal canisters and clay pots of medicinal salve into the horse’s satchels. “Take my mare. She’ll bring you somewhere far from here, <em>you have to survive and find a proper medic. </em>Do you hear me?”</p><p>“C-can’t you—can’t you do it—” He couldn’t speak properly anymore. Black spots swam in his vision like squids propelling themselves through an inky sea. The man hesitated but eventually shook his head. </p><p>“It’s not safe for you here,” he insisted. “Any longer and they’ll return to pick off survivors. I’ve already stemmed the bleeding and hopefully slowed the poison. <em>Get out of here</em>, king.”</p><p>That shocked Dream enough for him to register the man’s words. Before he could reply, the man slapped the rump of his horse, and the mare shot off while carrying a disheveled Dream on its back. If it weren’t for his reflexes, he would’ve fallen off. </p><p>The horse, unfortunately, had to be put down because they had sprung a hunter’s convoluted trap. During the ride, Dream was fading in and out of a half-asleep-half-awake state of mind as they galloped across a wheat plain. Sometimes Dream felt too hot, sometimes he felt too cold, but he strangely never felt pain for the first few hours or two.</p><p>When the horse had gotten caught in the hunter’s trap and could no longer run, Dream found a dagger in the satchels, murmured a woozy blessing, and relieved it of its misery.</p><p>Now without a mount, Dream decided it was time to find shelter and take care of the goddamn arrow still stuck in his side. He was out of the plains biome, now somewhere near the beginnings of a forest. He spotted a few saplings cropping up from the ground, and upon recognizing their type, Dream balked. </p><p>Dark oak meant he was approaching enemy borders; he’d cross it in about a day or two of walking straight ahead. Despite escaping from Pillagers, Dream still found himself surrounded by them from both sides. The thought pained him thoroughly.</p><p>Speaking of pain, the wound began throbbing again. The salve effects had worn off. Dream picked through the healing supplies, and to his utmost annoyance, discovered that whatever the man had given him could not be applied more than once per day. </p><p>Dream still took inventory. The pain began trickling in stages—first a throb, then a dull burn spreading across his side, and finally—whenever Dream shifted in position—a wave of pure, unadulterated, white-hot hurt followed.  </p><p>Dream was, without eloquence, absolutely dogshit at healing. He had no idea how to sort through medicine pots and canisters correctly, often opting to dump them on the floor to read off their labels when he still could hunt for fun. Dream<em> would </em>do just that, but he was too exposed and out in the open—the dull green of his hoodie stood out amidst the yellow-turning-brown stalks of grass around him. </p><p>He steeled his mind and ventured into the direction of the dark oak forest, his gut screaming in protest every time he took a step forwards. His shoulders were being weighed down by his belongings and the medicine canisters, but Dream pushed onwards.</p><p>Maybe luck was on his side because the arrow wasn’t jagged and was rather thin compared to a crossbow bolt. (Dream shuddered at the thought of being the one pulverized by a crossbow. It sent shivers down his blissfully still-intact spine.) He ditched the ‘lucky’ train of thought, however, when he finally went deep enough into the forest accompanied by a major inconvenience.</p><p>The wound started bleeding. Dream swore and dumped his whole bag onto the leaf-covered floor, hissing in pain as he slowly lowered himself onto the ground, careful not to agitate the injury any further. He leaned against the large bark of a tree, hands trying to apply pressure near the arrow. His hoodie was completely soaked in red. Dream snarled and tore the side part of his hoodie into two, giving him clear access to the arrow. </p><p>He fumbled for his bag and brought out a canteen. With shaky hands, Dream popped the lid open and tried to pour some water to clean the mess of blood bubbling from his wound. </p><p>Once done, Dream grunted in effort and reached for a salve in an attempt to relieve the pain and stop the bleeding. He hiked his hoodie further upwards, unscrewed the canister lid with one slippery hand, reached into the metal can, and dumped a large dollop of creamy substance near his arrow wound. </p><p>It<em> burned. </em>Dream ground his teeth together but yelled in pain for the third time—tears pricked at the corner of his eyes as he forced himself to rub the ointment near the wound, praying it would work.</p><p>It helped a little, but if you asked Dream, the sensation of a million little needles stabbing into your waist was not a very good one. </p><p>Dream took in a shuddering breath. Dawn was already here, and the sun bore its rays between the canopy of leaves above his head. Honestly, Dream did not want to move. The salve had dried and covered his side with a strange coating, rendering him still. He was extremely open for shooting, assassinating, murdering, axing—Dream closed his eyes. He shouldn’t think about potential ways to be killed while avoiding death himself. </p><p>With every passing minute, Dream’s hatred against the Pillagers burned brighter and brighter. With nothing to do, he could only contemplate ways to wring off their greasy heads and how to take his homeland back. </p><p>A snap of a branch sounded to Dream’s left, and he was immediately on high alert. </p><p><em> Near the border. Enemy. </em> Those words flashed in and out of his mind. Dream, once again, berated himself for not carrying any weapons. Then he remembered he had a dagger with him, and Dream sent a quick blessing to that strange man who had sent him on horseback over a whole wheat field.</p><p><em> Crunch. Snap. </em>The intruder was getting closer, and if Dream was careful enough, he could stab the assailant in their leg. </p><p>Another crunch. Then, a voice. </p><p>“Dream?”</p><p>And Dream, like a good man, lost it. He cried. Because being at the border also meant finding survivors from that prison break—how could he forget the hour he spent praying for George’s life? </p><p>Dressed in dark, oxford blue, was exactly who Dream had wished for to be <em>alive, alive, alive</em>. George. Looking a little worse for wear, definitely underfed, but it was George all the same.</p><p>The tense silence of shock and disbelief was immediately shattered upon the shrill yell that came out of George’s mouth upon seeing the arrow embedded into Dream’s side.</p><p>“DREAM—”</p><p>...Looks like he’ll have to do the catching up later. </p><p> </p>
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